


Cheers to beauty

by MadJustSH



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadJustSH/pseuds/MadJustSH
Summary: The gang discusses the concept of beauty while waiting for James in the Devil's Tavern.'Thomas cleared his throat. Cordelia thought he glanced toward Alastair. She was surprised to notice a slight blush creeping up his cheeks. She turned to look at her brother. Alastair was brushing the spines of the books with the tips of his fine fingers as he examined them.“I agree with Anna. I too consider dark hair and eyes to be much more striking.” Thomas said.'
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood, Ariadne Bridgestock/Anna Lightwood, Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Cordelia Carstairs/Matthew Fairchild, Grace Blackthorn/Christopher Lightwood, Jesse Blackthorn/Lucie Herondale
Comments: 29
Kudos: 234





	1. Concept of beauty

A handsome, lonely prince, or a trickster pirate with a dashing smile and dancing eyes, or a stoic soldier with a tight lip and a straightforward glare–everyone who fell in love with the Beautiful Cordelia always had the same raven neat hair and bright green eyes.

The novel Lucie was writing for the real Cordelia was full of fascinating characters with various appearances. The love interests, however, always looked vaguely the same. 

Sometimes, when Lucie described the passionate affair the Beautiful Cordelia had with one of her many suitors, the real Cordelia would forget herself for a moment. The prince’s or pirate’s or soldier’s neat black hair would turn a little messy. He would gaze deep into her eyes with his own, rich gold against the dark speckles of his irises. Cordelia’s breath would quicken, heat rising in her cheeks.

Then, the novel would remind Cordelia, that the boy kissing the Beautiful Cordelia and professing his undying love to her in the shadows, as it was properly scandalous to do so in daylight, had lovely green eyes, not gold ones. 

Cordelia would stumble on the words and stop reading, promising herself to finish the story later before she writes back to Lucie.

Matthew came to Cordelia’s house to escort her to the Devil’s Tavern, where their friends were expecting them. He wore a brown wool sack suit with stripes and was parting his hair with care when Cordelia entered the hall. Matthew greeted her with a smile, his face bright. As Cordelia fastened a pale green hat on her hair, Alastair emerged from the drawing room and had refused to have her go with Matthew alone.

As they walked up the Fleet Street, Matthew joked about the poets that wrote in the saloons they passed. At times he jabbed at Alastair, trailing behind. Her brother, admiring the buildings coming at them with every step, said:

“I want to be friendly, Matthew. I am accompanying you as I do not wish for Cordelia to be alone with any gentleman.”

Matthew scoffed and continued the retelling of a scandalous life of a scandalous artist.

As they entered the Devil’s Tavern and walked up the rickety stairs, a mixture of sweet and damp smells enveloped them, noises all around. The Downwolder patrons beamed at Matthew and Cordelia and glared at Alastair. They disliked having many strange Shadowhunters in their place of rest. Alastair ignored them.

As they pushed through the wooden doors into the room, the hubbub from downstairs quietened and Cordelia could hear the silvery voice of her future _parabatai_. Lucie sat at the round table, head in her hand, tips of her dainty fingers smudged with ink. Sunlight poured in through the window, reflecting off the glass surfaces, and danced on her face. She squinted, trying to look at Anna. She was complaining about the novel.

Anna played with a hilt of a dagger, a similar one still wedged into the dartboard. A flowery double-breasted vest clung to her form, her short hair slick. A humorous expression on her face reminded Cordelia of Lucie and James’ father, Will. Their undeniable resemblance still startled Cordelia whenever she saw Anna.

There was a faint burnt smell, coming from a metal mobile laboratory in the corner where Christopher sat, hunched. He scribbled in a notepad, a thick heavy volume open near the glass tube, something murky inside, fuming.

Thomas was leaning over the arm of the low burgundy sofa, his legs under him, considerable shoulders arched, a small book in his hands. Cordelia recognised delicate gold letters on the cover. It was a collection of Sufi poetry Thomas liked. His focus shifted as he saw them enter. He smiled at Cordelia and Matthew, greeting them. As Alastair came in after them, Thomas straightened.

“Alastair…” He faltered and ran his fingers through his thick hair.

Alastair acknowledged him with a nod. Lucie stared between them. Anna smiled.

“Ah, Mr. Carstairs,” She said, her voice breathy. “I have long wanted to meet you. Cordelia here told us fascinating stories of your travel as children, but I would love to discover more.”

She extended her elegant arm to him. He blinked at it in confusion. Cordelia held her breath. Next to her, Matthew smirked.

Alastair took Anna’s hand, they shook. Anna grinned, her lashes catching the sunlight. Matthew hummed in annoyance.

As they waited for James, they arranged themselves around Lucie, giving advice on her story.

“So, Lucie, the principal love interest, the lord, must be extraordinarily and devastatingly handsome. To make our Cordelia forget all her earlier look-alike dalliances.” Anna teased.

Lucie knit her brows and glared at Anna. Her gaze not unlike the daggers Anna was holding a minute ago.

“Yes. For once the lord should have silky gold hair and a youthful appearance. I suppose the eyes can stay green; it is fascinating enough colour.” Matthew said, his own emerald eyes glistening with mischief as he swirled a drink around in his glass.

“No, Math, dear. Dark hair and dark eyes–there is poetry to its balance.” Anna argued. “I would prefer a blush pink bow to be holding up the luscious dark curls, but I suppose lords rarely wear those.”

They argued over the right looks that would make the Beautiful Cordelia fall madly in love, bickering back and forth. Lucie was making a note of everything they said.

“I agree,” Thomas whispered.

Matthew took his eyes off his own reflection in the glass panel of the Merry Thieves’ alcohol cabinet. He looked at Thomas, intrigued.

“What do you mean?” Matthew asked.

“I…” Thomas started and then frowned. He lowered his shoulders onto himself as if trying to make himself smaller. Cordelia felt bad for Thomas, all of them watching him with curiosity.

Thomas cleared his throat. Cordelia thought he glanced toward Alastair, standing in the room’s corner near the bookshelf in an obvious demonstration of not taking part in their discussion. Cordelia blinked, and Thomas was again looking in front of himself at the brim of his glass. She was surprised to notice a slight blush creeping up his cheeks. She turned to look at her brother. Alastair was brushing the spines of the books with the tips of his fine fingers as he examined them.

“I agree with Anna. I too consider dark hair and eyes to be much more striking.” Thomas said.

Alastair’s hand hovered mid-air in transition between two covers. He seemed to be in deep thought. He pushed a lock of dyed bright blonde hair behind his ear. The hand close to the book covers settled on the nearest one, stroking it absentmindedly. Alastair’s other hand was still in his hair, trembling. Cordelia wanted to ask him if he was well when a loud humph got her attention.

“Oh, Thomas, dear!” Matthew exclaimed. “You only say that to hurt my feelings and it is not a gentlemanly behaviour.”

Matthew turned back to the glass panel, observing himself. He smiled, satisfied, and looked at Cordelia.

“Where do your preferences lie, Daisy?” He asked her.

James was the only one calling her that before Matthew picked up the nickname too. Hearing it always sent a slight shiver of excitement down her spine. Now, a confusing mingle of emotions swirled within Cordelia whenever Matthew used it.

She looked around in discomfort as Matthew continued. “You are the heroine of Lucie’s novel after all. Is there a particular gentleman you fancy? Lucie could write the looks off him.”

Matthew’s tone was mocking, and Cordelia wanted to chastise him for laughing at her. He was grinning, but Cordelia did not recognise the emotion in his eyes. But a vague, almost hopeful way he was looking at her made her stop and consider her words with care. Before she could say anything, Thomas intervened.

“Stop it, Matthew, you are being improper.” He said. He looked at Cordelia with a shy smile.

“Me? Improper? Never!” Mathew laughed, putting a hand over his chest. “I apologise, my dear Daisy. Perhaps a hero of a book you find charming? It would help Lucie immensely to rewrite his description into her own novel.”

Lucie grumbled but said nothing. Instead, she looked at her, awaiting. Cordelia shifted in her chair.

“I find anyone who is led by kindness and not cruelty to be charming.” Cordelia retorted.

“A kind toad is not exciting!” Lucie countered. “You cannot fall in love with the lord passing through the village if he is ugly. You are unaware of his mercifulness yet!”

Matthew beamed.

“I agree. Consider our Thomas here.” He said. Thomas was startled as everyone turned to stare at him once again, even Alastair. “He is kind beyond measure. But I assure you Cordelia, the young ladies at the balls are not giggling and blushing at his gold heart. It is his height and those delightful hazel eyes they sigh over.”

Anna chuckled, reclining in her chair with ease. She looked relaxed and pleased with their conversation. Matthew was surely complimenting Thomas, but his words seemed mocking. Thomas furrowed his brows and was about to say something quite strong to Matthew, when Christopher, taking his eyes away from the bickers and a notepad he was writing in, interrupted him.

“And you, Matthew?” He said and looked back at the pages, scanning them.

“I appreciate beauty in all its forms.” Matthew proclaimed. “And I have not being known to reject one when it comes my way.”

Anna rolled her eyes. Christopher nodded and made a note in his papers. Cordelia stared at him, confused. Was Christopher compiling a list of their… preferences?

Alastair moved to the fireplace and regarded the marble bust of Apollo standing atop the mantle. He smiled at the Greek’s most beautiful god’s chipped nose. Amused, Alastair placed his hand on the spine of the sofa standing nearby. Thomas, the only one sitting on the sofa, stiffened.

Matthew poured more brandy in his glass, took a sip, and moved towards Christopher. He looked over Christopher’s shoulder at the papers and smirked.

“Kit, your list is incomplete.” He said. Christopher turned to him, a question behind the thick spectacles. Matthew continued. “You did not include Mr. Carstairs over there. He is a guest of the Devil Tavern and must participate.”

Alastair stared at the group, eyes widening. He schooled his expression and crossed his arms.

“I do not intend to take part in your childish discussions.” He said, his chin up.

“You offered us your friendship, Alastair.” Matthew persisted. “Taking part in each other’s childish discussions is what friends do.”

Matthew’s tone turned pleasant, his pose inviting. But his eyes were intense, challenging. A shadow over his face.

Anna leaned in her chair. Lucie fumbled with a thin gold bracelet on her wrist. Thomas did not move. Christopher did not care.

Cordelia remembered Alastair and Charles’ meeting in the drawing room of their house. Their hushed conversation, the fear in Charles’ words, the vulnerability on her brother’s face. Did Matthew know? There was enmity between Matthew and his older brother, whom he thought to be too rigid. But Cordelia knew Matthew was not cruel.

She crumpled the lace at the front of her dress, her fists closed tight. Cordelia hoped Thomas would intervene again, but he was only looking in Alastair’s direction, slightly to the side of his face.

Alastair regarded Matthew with an icy stare, sizing him up. He looked at Apollo again, pondering, and then at Thomas. His gaze softened and traveled back to Matthew. Alastair sighed.

“I suppose, I also ostentatiously proclaim my love for beauty in its purest form. I am quite fond of it.” Alastair’s lip quirked in the beginnings of a smile, and skin under his eyes wrinkled.

Matthew looked surprised. Then his expression changed, and he snorted.

“That is right. I respect that answer.” Matthew said with an easy laugh. The shadow passed, and Cordelia exhaled. She smoothed over her dress as Matthew moved back to the cabinet and produced a bottle.

“You must drink.” Matthew extended a glass with brandy in it to Alastair.

Her brother hesitated. Cordelia knew he did not drink, not ever. Only held a glass to toast with at social events.

Matthew was beaming at him and Alastair gave up.

“Very well.” He said as he took the glass in his hands.

Matthew hurried to pour a refreshment for Thomas, Christopher, and Anna.

“To camaraderie and beauty”. He smiled at Lucie and Cordelia, tipping his glass towards them. Anna humphed but emptied her glass. Thomas did the same. Christopher sipped at it and went back to examining the tubes. Alastair raised his drink.

“To camaraderie and beauty.” He said and smiled at Matthew.

Matthew upset his drink and turned to sit next to Lucie at the round table, looking pleased.

Without taking a sip, Alastair lowered his glass on the bar near the sofa and sat down on the opposite side of Thomas. 


	2. Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alastair discuss politics.
> 
> '...Thomas, whose eyes used to travel up and down Alastair’s form whenever he thought Alastair was not looking, so obvious in his yearning, yet so oblivious of it. Alastair was not furious with Thomas, caring and thoughtful and sweet, but with everyone else in his life, who was not that.'

The sun glared through the thick glass, catching Sona’s form in its light, and casting long shadows around her, as she fumbled with a gold necklace at her throat. Alastair was fastening his long coat, preparing to walk out into the damp weather in search of his sister. 

The Herondale siblings came by their house earlier in the day, a stubborn look on Lucie’s face and a distant far-away one on James’, and whisked Cordelia away, mumbling something incoherent about an urgent matter at the Devil’s Tavern.

Now, the day was coming to a halt, and Cordelia has not returned. Alastair placed his hand over his mother’s palm and assured her not to worry as he walked out.

As Alastair entered the tavern, a never-ending blend of noises and smells of the Downwolder life greeted him. He took his hat off and patted his hair in a fruitless habit to lay them flat. He caught the attention of the werewolf barmaid and gestured towards the stairs. She looked at him with a vague expression and nodded.

He pushed through the crowd, trying to attract minimal scrutiny from the Downwolder denizens, and made his way up the stairs.

He knocked on the door, to no response. Then, with a moment’s hesitation, he tried the handle. It gave, and the door opened.

The room was still. Everything in the same place as Alastair remembered it from his last visit. The low light of the late afternoon illuminated the occasional dust speckle. Near the fireplace, on the low horsehair sofa, the only one in the room, sat Thomas.

He was jacketless. His body curled around a book, long legs under him, broad shoulders working against the bone-white shirt. The sun touched Thomas’ skin, light shimmering and swirling in his lashes, creating a faint shadow down his cheeks. His head lay in the palm of his hand as he read. His brows knit in concentration. Alastair cleared his throat.

Thomas looked up with a dazed gaze. Alastair’s heart jumped once. Then Thomas registered Alastair at the door, and his face cleared. 

“Hello.” Thomas said, a tangle of confusion, worry and apprehension emerging behind the hazel of his eyes.

“Hello, Thomas.” Alastair said, hands rubbing at the rough material of his hat. “Cordelia is supposed to be here. Your friends have abducted my sister and have not returned her yet.”

“Cordelia and Lucie went to the Institute. To train.” Thomas’ answered, his eyes intent.

Alastair intended to thank him and go find his sister, but an expectant, almost scared way Thomas was watching him made him linger at the door. A nasty tug pulled at his stomach at the idea that Thomas might be wary of him.

He shifted from foot to foot. Thomas clutched at the heavy looking book, his fingers digging into the pages.

“What are you reading?” Alastair asked.

Thomas stared at the book with surprise, as if seeing it for the first time.

“The Prince. By…” He stuttered and then straightened. “By Niccolò Machiavelli. A friend at the Madrid Institute gushed about it. He says more Shadowhunters should read up on mundane politics. To learn from them.”

Alastair smiled, surprised. He read the book and liked it enough, though many misconstrued it as devious.

“Are you enjoying it?” He asked.

Thomas furrowed his brows, stroking his chin.

“I’m not quite sure I understand it.” He said, glancing back at the book, his voice husky, but gentle.

A few papers were scattered on the low table in front of Thomas, a stele weighting them down.

“Are those your notes on it?” Alastair asked. “Can I?”

Thomas nodded and shifted, making space for Alastair.

Alastair hesitated, and then moved towards the sofa, sitting down. A minty clean musky scent touched him.

He picked up one of the notes. Thomas leaned in closer to him, trying to see the page Alastair was holding. His knee pressed into Alastair’s, warm sensation prickling at Alastair’s skin.

He examined the page. It had an outline of the basic structures of government; under it - the names of the key characters of the book and a brief explanation of their role, scribbled in delicate writing. At the bottom there were three words - “ _cruel_ ”, “ _manipulative_ ” and “ _disagree_ ”.

“I would guess you are _not_ enjoying it.” Alastair offered, giving the note back to Thomas, their fingers almost touching.

Thomas shrugged. “It seems…” He glanced at Alastair and away. “Dangerous?”

“In what way?” A pang of disappointment wrenched at Alastair. Thomas was of the same opinion as most.

“It says a leader should fool his people.” Thomas turned to him, balancing the book on his knees. “And always choose cruelty over mercifulness to gain power.”

“It fosters determination and decisiveness in a ruler. Those are hardly undesirable qualities. Especially for society’s advancement.” Alastair retorted.

Thomas' eyes narrowed as he rubbed the soft skin behind his left ear. “I do not believe a country… or the Clave… or anyone can prosper by acting cruel.” He said. “The leader must be compassionate. Have a fascination with their people and empathise with and care for and support them in their shared challenge. Choose kindness and sincerity.”

He was gesturing with his hand as he spoke, Lightwood family ring glistening on his finger, little metallic flames circling it. Alastair smiled at the irony. The offspring of an old influential Shadowhunter family, that etched their prominent position in the Clave and its history through blood and murder, moralising about compassionate leadership.

His heart constricted at the image of Thomas and his friends, with their easy smiles and the many choices they did not have to make because their ancestors chose to be cruel.

“Machiavelli suggests retention of power through native military. That is us.” Alastair gestured between them sharply. “Shadowhunters are born warriors, raised to kill.” Alastair hated the bitterness in his voice but could not stop himself. “You, me, every Shadowhunter–we are murderers.”

Thomas flinched.

“We kill demons.” He said, leaning away from Alastair, the warmth of his knee lost.

“And terrorise Downloaders.” Alastair countered, his muscles tensing.

“We are in a Downloader inn.” Thomas insisted.

“Because of their kindness, not yours.” Alastair spat, his blood boiling. “It speaks to their nature, not your little friends’.”

Thomas recoiled, jaw clenched, hurt flooding his face.

Alastair paused. What was he doing? He promised himself to be amicable with Thomas and his friends, and he was doing the absolute opposite right now. He needed to regain composure.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “You are right. The book… is horrible. It implies the goal justifies the means, and you can allow yourself to break promises and be cruel if it brings you closer to it.”

Alastair thought of Charles marrying Ariadne for her connection to the Inquisitor. Of Charles, who considered his mother’s merciful nature to be a detriment to strong leadership. Of Charles, who kept him in shadows, like a shameful secret. He pushed the thought away and refocused on Thomas.

Thomas, whose eyes used to travel up and down Alastair’s form whenever he thought Alastair was not looking, so obvious in his yearning, yet so oblivious of it. Alastair was not furious with Thomas, caring and thoughtful and sweet, but with everyone else in his life, who was not that.

“But it is not evil.” Alastair continued. “Machiavelli urges the ruler to promote art and commerce and agriculture. Democracy-loving people of Florence armed with education, wealth and… and actual weapons. The power to overthrow corrupt leaders. He presented it as a gift to Italy’s ruler, but it was a warning in disguise.”

Thomas looked at him, searching his face, brows knit together. He sighed, and the hurt in his expression subdued.

He smiled then, letting the gleam of the hazel back in.

“I cannot imagine Inquisitor Bridgestock forcing people to take piano lessons.” He said.

Alastair willed himself to relax and smiled back. “Or running around with a garden hose.”

Thomas chuckled and put the book on the table. “Either way, I don’t like it.” He said, pushing the volume away.

“I imagine it doesn’t measure up to the Hafiz poetry and his verses about divine love.” Alastair suggested, remembering the small Sufi literature book Thomas was reading last time.

“No, it does not.” Thomas said, maintaining the eye contact.

“I don’t recall you mentioning you understood Persian. You were quite clumsy with French. Now I am wondering if I said something horrifying in your presence. Though, I suppose, the language barrier never stopped me in that regard.” Alastair was careful to keep the edge off his voice.

“I speak Spanish too, with my father.” Thomas rushed to confess.

Alastair turned to him, shifting his weight to his palm on the seat of the sofa, near Thomas’ hip, their knees bumping again. “And your Madrid friend.”

“Yes.” Thomas said in a low voice.

They sat there, in a near silence, only the muffled sound of the downstairs clamour and music in the distance. On the spine of the worn sofa, Thomas’ shadow was touching his. Thomas watched Alastair, his chest expanding slowly against the thin shirt, hands creasing the fabric of his wool trousers. The heat radiating off Thomas’ knee, up Alastair’s leg and into his body, hugged Alastair.

Thomas glanced down and a faint blush stained his cheeks.

He swallowed, and a lump travelling down his throat caught Alastair’s attention. He watched as it disappeared into the hollow behind a delicate soft skin. Thomas’ shirt was unbuttoned, enough for Alastair to see the Madrid tan dissipating around his collarbones, a _stamina_ rune on the wide hard plane of his chest, peeking out.

Alastair thought of Paris, of Thomas smiling and blushing and shivering. The cosy musky smell surrounded him, besotting.

“Can I see your tattoo again?” Alastair whispered, unable to restrain himself.

Without a word, Thomas pushed up his sleeve and offered his left hand to Alastair.

Shadowhunter runes were practical, intricate, bending and turning. They spoke an elusive language of angels and Heaven. Most faded with time, leaving scars in their wake.

Thomas’ tattoo was sharp and permanent, like a _parabatai_ rune or an _agape_ rune of unconditional love; the ones put on your body only with absolute confidence and an aim of everlasting devotion.

Alastair held Thomas’ arm and traced a line from the _N_ to the _S_. Goosebumps crawled up Thomas’ skin as Alastair’s fingers continued their way from the sensitive skin of the elbow down to the wrist, catching the sped up pulse, to the warm calloused palm, softly pressing into the tiny pale freckle there, and reached the tip of Thomas’ ring finger. He heard Thomas’ breath hitch, his own heart pounding. Alastair was not looking at Thomas, focused on the light touch of their fingers, captivated by the contrast of Thomas’ thinly tanned skin against the bronze of his own. But he knew Thomas was looking at him.

Thomas curved his own thumb under Alastair’s, and Alastair lifted his eyes. Thomas’ pupils expanded, taking over the hazel, pushing it away. His gaze dark and heavy. Thomas nibbled at his own lip, sucking it in, and Alastair’s breath caught, a bolt of excitement shooting down his stomach. The thought of Charles came, stinging him with guilt. Thomas glanced down at Alastair’s lips, swallowing. The thought passed.

He saw Thomas inch closer to him, felt himself getting dizzy.

The door flew open.

Alastair started and jumped away from Thomas. Matthew was staring at them, a metallic flask in hand, cheeks flushed, eyes darting. A stupid smile sliding down.

Alastair cleared his throat.

“I will go by the Institute and see if Cordelia is there. Thank you, Thomas.” He said, his voice rough and alien-sounding to his own ears. Alastair could not bear to chance a look at Thomas. He had a foolish feeling of being caught red-handed.

“Yes!” Thomas said too loud, the hoarseness jolting Alastair. “You are… you are welcome. Oh, hello, Matthew.”

The terrible parody of nonchalance screeched at Alastair’s ears.

“Hello, Thomas.” Matthew replied. “Alastair?”

Alastair nodded in his direction and pushed past him. His heart forced itself against his ribs, blood thrumming in his ears. The need to escape the room, the Downwolder inn, guided him into the cold early evening of London streets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read and watched too much about the meaning of "The Prince" by Machiavelli for this, I beg you, please like it
> 
> my-failed-attempt.tumblr.com


	3. Transcendent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alastair, illuminated by the moon.
> 
> "Alastair brushed Thomas’ cheek, his touch gentle. The heat radiated off his palm. Thomas thought how he never knew a Shadowhunter whose hands were so soft."

It was raining outside. The patter on the window was dissipating into whispers around the room. Alastair was playing with Thomas’ ring finger, sending shivers down Thomas’ spine with every gentle stroke. The smell of electricity danced between them, mixed with sweet intoxicating fragrance of Alastair cologne. Thomas tried to pick out what that smell was, tried to name a fruit or a flower or a spice with the scent so bold and unceremonious, it would jolt his heart up, and make him dizzy and bold himself.

But the striking shadows down Alastair’s slim face drew away his attention and captivated him. Thomas could not understand how someone can have such long, thick eyelashes. His hand prickled with the desire to reach out and caress Alastair’s face, have him look away from their hands, look at Thomas. He wanted to see those lashes fly up and reveal Alastair’s thoughtful eyes.

Thomas pushed his thumb under Alastair’s, and he looked up. Thomas’ breath caught. The rain outside got louder, hitting the glass with an intense rhythm, matching Thomas’ racing heart. The moonlight cast a milky glow over Alastair’s face, illuminating his deep black eyes, giving Thomas a rare opportunity to discern the pupil from the colour.

He did not remember the moon being out when Alastair walked into the Merry Thieves’ room earlier, but he did not complain. The light accentuated Alastair’s features, the ones Thomas was already in love with and the ones he never noticed, transcendent. The unpronounced wrinkles in the middle of Alastair’s forehead, the soft crease of those smart eyes, the exact crook of his distinguished nose, the sharp curve of his proud chin, the incredible fullness of his lips.

Thomas felt Alastair shift closer to him.

Alastair brushed Thomas’ cheek, his touch gentle. The heat radiated off his palm. Thomas thought how he never knew a Shadowhunter whose hands were so soft. He thought how a strand of Alastair’s hair fell out onto his face and how he wanted to reach out and put it back behind Alastair’s ear but was too afraid to move and break this impossible moment. He thought how deafening the rain got and how he could almost taste ozone in the air.

And then, Alastair's mouth was on his and he stopped thinking.

Alastair brushed his lips against Thomas’, his shallow warm breath between them. Then, he caressed Thomas’ cheek and pressed at his jaw and Thomas breathed in. Alastair pushed his tongue inside, kissing him slowly. Alastair’s other hand pushed into Thomas’ chest, clutching at his shirt, and Thomas remembered about his own hands. Doing nothing.

He hastily put them on Alastair’s waist, pulling him closer. A soft surprised gasp escaped Alastair’s mouth. Then, Alastair made an approving murmur and kissed Thomas harder. Thomas could not help glee rising in his chest.

Alastair moved on to Thomas’ jaw, leaving small quick pecks on the way to his neck, and Thomas felt excitement firing down his body. He kept making unrhythmic circles on Alastair’s back, just wanting to hold him close. Alastair’s other hand crawled up to Thomas’ shirt, and he started unbuttoning it, while licking and kissing and sucking Thomas’ neck. Thomas did not recognize the sounds escaping his own mouth. He felt the heat rise in his face.

Alastair pushed Thomas’ shirt down and Thomas felt a slight disappointment at having to let go of Alastair to wiggle his arms out of the sleeves. But it soon turned into pride when he saw the way Alastair was scanning his body, mouth wet and red, half-open, his eyes getting even darker.

Alastair pressed down Thomas’ chest, pushing him onto his elbows. Thomas’ skin was rubbing against a rough fabric of the low sofa. Alastair moved between biting at Thomas’ lips and kissing down his chest. Their hips were pressed together, and Alastair was hard, and Thomas felt his consciousness slipping away for a second. Impatience scratched at his skin and he rolled his hips into Alastair’s, making him moan. Thomas’ breath turned jagged. A distant rumble mixed into the violent sound of the downpour outside.

Thomas realized Alastair’s shirt was rumpled and half out of his trousers but still buttoned up. He moved to undo it, trying hard to concentrate through the half-dark of the room and the haze in his mind, but the tremble in his hands would not stop, so he was left just pulling onto the buttons and sulking. Alastair huffed out with a smile when he realized Thomas’ struggle. He pressed a soft kiss into one of Thomas’ hands and started undressing himself.

Thomas watched him. Alastair’s body was taut and strong. The white light of the moon illuminated his dark skin and the fading marks that ran up his shoulder and chest and abs. Various recent runes, still ink-black and pronounced, also covered his body all over.

But Thomas could not look away from the rune on Alastair’s lower abdomen, barely peeking out of his pants, but unmistakable. A _stamina_ rune. Thomas went cold.

His mind ran, his thoughts getting on top of themselves, battling and flooding him with questions. A _stamina_ rune. There.

Who put it there? Not Alastair himself, someone else. And recently. The black was still fresh. Why? Not for a battle, not for a battle, not for a battle. Thomas’ brain screamed at him **this** _stamina_ rune was not for a battle. Someone touched and kissed Alastair like **that**. Recently.

Thomas’ heart constricted and his excitement vanished. A nasty tug at his stomach. Thomas felt stupid and disgusting and sad.

He looked up at Alastair, a pained expression on his face.

“Thomas...”, He exhaled, reaching out.

Thomas pulled away. He wanted to run, to hide. He could not breathe. The rumble outside was getting closer. The pungent metallic taste in his mouth was making him sick.

He heard a door fly open with a loud bang. He turned towards it, expecting to see Matthew.

But in the frame there stood Charles. His slick red hair messy. His nostrils flaring, fury in his cold eyes. Thomas grew up next to Charles, and he never saw him like that, uncomposed and angry and mad.

“What are you doing here, half-pint?” He spat, pointing a finger at Thomas. He approached him, and Thomas realized how small he was, compared to Charles. Charles was gigantic and monstrous.

Anxiety flooded Thomas’ stomach, and he turned to the broken mirror on the far-away wall Matthew liked so much and saw himself shrinking. He turned to Alastair then. Thomas was barely reaching Alastair’s knees with his tiny hands. Alastair was looking down on him. The shape of his mouth was twisted in a weird crook. There was a slight tremble on his lips. Thomas did not know if Alastair was about to cry or laugh. But his eyes were filled with cruelty and disgust.

The ground was shaking, an electrical smell was stinging Thomas’ nostrils with violence. Alastair’s skin started cracking, chipping away. He opened his mouth, and an uncontrollable ear-splitting growl came out, shocking Thomas and jolting him up.

Thomas started up. He was covered in sweat, his heart racing, his breath shaky and uneven. Thomas touched his chest with icy fingers, trying to calm himself down.

He was home, in his bed. By himself.

An ozone smell prickled in his nose. It was raining outside. A bright blinding flash struck. Then, a rumble of thunder came. Thomas shuddered and hugged himself. Then, he stood up and looked at himself in the full-body mirror next to his dresser. He was tall and muscular, occupying the body he was still not used to. The body he still felt clumsy and awkward and alien in.

He sat down on his bed and tried to grasp at the memory of the dream he just had, but it was getting away from him. Thomas breathed in, slow and deep, breathed out. He lay down, closed his eyes, trying to push the fear and anxiety away, to coax himself to sleep. But it would not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be Anna's POV.
> 
> Drop a comment :)
> 
> my-failed-attempt.tumblr.com


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